Page 12 of Pretty Heartache

Now, here he is again, offering me a place to stay. Saving me.

“I’ve just flown in from London.” He rubs the heel of his hand over his eye. “Once I landed, I had something to do for work.”

I frown. “I’m not sure how that led to you sleeping on your front porch, but you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

I step back when he quickly stands and sways on his feet, and I immediately smell stale alcohol. I scrunch my nose as he looks up at me.

“It’s not me. Well, I drank a little too much, but it was the first time in a long time. Besides, the smell isn’t from that.” He points to his feet. “Hazards of the job.”

The bottoms of his blue slacks are covered in visible stains, and the toes of his brown suede shoes are discolored. From what, I don’t know. All I know is that it doesn’t smell good, and it isn’t any of my business.

“I believe you.” I nod once, and swing my gaze to the house behind him. “Archer told me it was okay to stay here, but if it’s not…” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder.

“No,” he rushes to say. “You can stay here. I told him it was okay.”

“Okay. Um, thanks.” I awkwardly tug on the ends of my sleeves, digging my nails through the fabric into my skin.

It’s strange seeing Micah this way. Talking to him this way. Last time I spoke to him, I was dripping wet in my perfectly pink bathing suit. The one I wore just for him.

He’s changed now. Not only are there a few more lines in his forehead and the corners of his mouth, there’s a pain in his eyes I don’t remember being there. The gray has darkened, as if they’re carrying the weight of ten years more experience.

“Here.” He moves, running his hand over his hair again. “We’ll go inside, and I’ll show you the house.”

“Is this yours?”

“Yeah,” he says over his shoulder while digging his keys from his pocket. “I bought it a few years ago off this family who inherited it from their grandfather. He was in his nineties and lived here alone. The family had no interest in keeping it or fixing it up. That’s why not much has been done to it.”

“But you’ve owned it for several years?”

“Yes.” He sticks the key into the lock, and my eyes fall to his hand. Dozens of cuts cover his knuckles. Dried blood lines each cut. I try to peek at his other hand to see if it could be swollen, but I’m unable to catch it before he’s pushing the door open.

It’s not until he steps inside do I realize I don’t know Micah at all, outside of public knowledge. I know he’s a billionaire, he’s thirty-three, the youngest of three brothers, and he’s my brother’s best friend, as well as a recovered drug addict—all traits I could easily find if I were to do a simple online search.

Before that fateful summer I turned eleven, Micah had always been a part of our lives in some capacity, though I only ever saw him every now and then when Archer decided to bring him over to our house. After the summer he pulled me from the pool, I never saw or spoke to him again.

When I step inside the front entryway, and the door shuts behind me, I make another realization.

I’ve never been alone with Micah before.

The absence of sunlight pronounces his features. He’s taller than me by nearly an entire foot, and aside from the putrid scent of alcohol covering his feet, he appears clean. Well, sort of.

I break my attention from Micah long enough to take in my new home. The inside looks nearly as neglected as the front. Marble tile stretches across the large space. Several doorways leading to different parts of the house cover all sides of the room. On the far side of the foyer is a long, wooden staircase—modest for this style of house, but quintessential New England, just the same.

I tilt my head to the ceiling, eyeing the glass chandelier hanging above. The brilliant stone glints and shimmers with the morning sun peeking through the heavy, gray, cloud-covered sky. The large picture window above the door allows a few streams of light to pour into the eerily quiet house. I lower mygaze and find myself staring back at my reflection. A gold, inlaid frame mirror hangs on the far wall.

I suck in a sharp breath, not wanting to look at myself too long. I snap my head away and dart my attention to Micah, who’s standing in front of the staircase, watching me.

He nods his head. “The kitchen is down this hall and to the right.” Placing his foot on the first step of the stairs, he points down another hallway. “There’s a bathroom down there, and an office. I haven’t had a chance to clean all the boxes and papers out of there yet, so you won’t get much use out of that room.”

I follow him up the stairs, each plank of wood creaking beneath our feet.

“There are four bedrooms up here, but three of them don’t have drywall, and parts of the floor are missing.”

“Sounds like this house needs a lot of work. Are you sure it’s livable?”

“It’s fine.” He waves me off. “I know it isn’t as put together as the house you grew up in, and I’m sure it isn’t as glamorous as the places you’re used to staying at as a model but?—”

“Being a model has nothing to do with it, and neither does the house I grew up in,” I cut in.

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